


Bombshell

by winterkill



Series: Dark in the city, night is a wire [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Ciri takes meeting Yennefer into her own hands, Dandelion is a little gay, F/M, Sad Dad Geralt, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yennefer thinks everyone is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: The girl digs around in the pocket of her oversized jacket and pulls out a folded newspaper page that Yennefer recognizes immediately, “You’re Yennefer of Vengerberg.”“I am.”“I wanted to meet you,” she stuffs the paper back in her pocket, “Geralt told me not to, but I usually know better than he does, so whatever.”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Dark in the city, night is a wire [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608151
Comments: 38
Kudos: 133





	Bombshell

**Author's Note:**

> Here's part three! Man, I LOVE writing Yennefer. This was my first time writing her POV.

Sabrina's on the chaise in the lounge again, flipping through a newspaper the paperboy delivered minutes before. She unfolds it, holds it over her head, and lets out a _hmmmmm._

"Yenna," she calls out, "this looks _absolutely_ delicious."

Yennefer, sorting through a stack of notes she scribbled earlier, looks up, “Excuse me?”

 _“This,”_ she holds the newspaper up over her head.

From across the room, Yennefer can clearly make out the headline and image on the page. “A Dance ‘Til Dawn” the title reads, and, large enough that she can make out the expression on her face, is the photo of the witcher and her. She looks pissed off, and _maybe_ a little breathless. 

_From exertion,_ Yennefer tells herself, _and nothing else. Ugh, this is why I don’t read the news; it’s all useless tripe._

“Why are you reading that trash, Sabrina?”

“It’s entertainment,” Sabrina replies, “We can’t all have _your_ adventures, Yenna.”

“If you consider _not_ exterminating a striga an adventure.” There were materials and data she wanted to collect from that specimen; Yennefer supposes, though, that it’s good that the girl is alive. Novigrad isn’t a kind city, and Yennefer didn’t use kind methods.

“Who cares about some striga?” Sabrina gives her that _look--_ the one she’s been giving her since they were girls at Aretuza; it means she thinks Yennefer is focusing on the wrong part of the given scenario. 

“Me,” Yennefer replies blandly.

“Tell me, if you even _remember,_ was this witcher as delightful in person?” Sabrina continues, “Look at those _arms;_ he looks like he’s sculpted from marble. _”_

“He smelled like he lives in a bar and crawled through a sewer.” Granted, given where they fought the striga, he probably had.

Sabrina shrugs, “There’s spells for that.”

“Fine, he looked like he hadn’t brushed his hair since last autumn.”

The witcher’s white hair had been covered in sewer grime as much as the rest of him. In all her years, Yennefer had never met a witcher. She’d heard of them, Geralt of Rivia in particular, and that they were a relic from a bygone era--a dying breed from a time when monsters roamed the countryside. 

Sabrina shrugs again, “There’s spells for that, too.”

“That sounds like a fitting use for magic, Sabrina,” Yennefer walks over to the chaise and plucks the newspaper from Sabrina’s fingers.

“We use it to keep ourselves young and beautiful,” she gives Yennefer a pointed look, “ _some_ of us more than others.”

 _I hate you._ Yennefer smiles instead of saying the thought aloud. She also doesn’t comment on the fact that Sabrina, as usual, is flitting around the lodge practically naked in the dead of winter. 

“Handsome or otherwise, the witcher was irritating.” Yennefer looks at the newspaper again, glancing down at the text where she’s described as a “violet-eyed demoness.” _That damned journalist and his camera. Next time, I’ll explode it._

“He looks like he’d know his way around a woman.”

“I’m not sure he’d be willing.”

Sabrina shrugs a third time, “There’s spells for that, too.”

* * *

A week passes, and Yennefer leaves the newspaper on the table where Sabrina dropped it. She tires of looking at the picture, but moving it would show weakness, and Sabrina will latch onto that faster than the striga wanted to rip out their throats.

Sabrina doesn’t move it either; Yennefer has _never_ lost to her and won’t start now.

“It’s foolish of both of you,” Philippa tells her one afternoon, “to waste your time with men.”

“Some of us _like_ men, Philippa,” Sabrina answers.

Yennefer is grateful when a knock on the door interrupts the conversation.

“I’ll get that,” she calls out, “while the two of you compare the respective merits of genitalia.”

There’s a second knock before Yennefer can cross the room and get to the door. The lodge _does_ get visitors--usually people with strange requests they think a group of sorceresses could remedy. Sometimes, the police request help with an investigation. 

...What _usually_ doesn’t appear at their door are thirteen-year-old girls with enough magical energy coming off of them that Yennefer feels like she walked headlong into a brick wall.

The girl, her ash-blonde hair spilling out from under a cap like the newsboys wear, has her hands on her hips. She’s a head shorter than Yennefer and is looking up at her with bright, emerald eyes.

“Can I assist you in some way?”

The girl digs around in the pocket of her oversized jacket and pulls out a folded newspaper page that Yennefer recognizes immediately, “You’re Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“I am.”

“I wanted to meet you,” she stuffs the paper back in her pocket, “Geralt told me not to, but I usually know better than he does, so whatever.”

 _Geralt of Rivia._ Yennefer keeps her expression a mask of professionalism, “You’re acquainted with Geralt of Rivia?”

“Yep!”

The magical energy coming off the girl hasn’t subsided, but Yennefer’s deductions are limited without bringing the girl inside and asking more questions. _So much power, but it feels_ different _, like looking into a blank space._

“How do you know him, girl?”

“He’s my dad...kinda. Well, not _really._ I’ve never called him that, but we take care of each other. We’re family.”

 _Family._ Witchers don’t have family and neither do sorceresses. The concept was something Yennefer gave up on decades ago. And yet, this girl is standing here, claiming Geralt and she are…

“Do you have a name?”

The girl nods, “Cirilla Fiona--just call me Ciri.”

“Ciri, then,” Yennefer steps aside, “If you wanted to meet me, I assume there’s cause?”

“Curiosity, kinda.”

Way unbarred, Ciri strides into the lodge common room like she owns the place. It gives Yennefer a chance to take in the rest of her appearance. Most of her clothes are at least a size too big and she’s wearing a pair of heavy-looking work boots. There’s a backpack on her back and behind that is…

“Is that a _sword?”_

Ciri looks up at her, “Oh, yeah. Geralt told me I don’t listen, so I should be able to protect myself.”

 _So irresponsible._ The witcher _would_ be like that--killing the striga was the better choice for public order; it makes sense that he would let a child run around Novigrad unattended with a sword.

“Would you like a drink?” 

“Sure!”

Yennefer needs something to busy herself, so she goes to their ice box and pours two glasses of apple juice. There’s butter cookies, too, so she takes the tin to the table. Ciri takes _five_ cookies, and the sight almost makes Yennefer smile. The apple juice is fresh-pressed, and Yennefer savors each sip.

“Does Geralt often let you...use that sword?”

“I’ve helped him kill a few monsters,” Ciri beams with pride, “Small stuff, mostly. I’ve threatened street gangs a few times, too. Don’t tell Geralt that, though. He’d be upset.”

“Would he now?”

“He’s just a worrywart,” Ciri crunches on a cookie, “When Dandelion told me about your fight with the striga, I wanted to meet you.”

_She knows the reporter, too?_

“May I ask why?”

“Dandelion’s descriptions are _super_ vivid, and I saw the photos, too. Geralt wouldn’t talk about it _at all,_ so it made me think the two of you would make a good team.”

Yennefer _nearly_ chokes on her apple juice, “A _team?”_

“Geralt has this lone wolf vibe,” Ciri eats the last cookie and grabs another three, “But he’s kinda useless by himself, and he won’t let me be his partner. He says it’s too dangerous ” She wipes cookie crumbs on her pants and holds up air quotes on the last two words.

_Our first concurrence, then._

“Novigrad is a dangerous city,” Yennefer agrees, “I wouldn’t let a child run amok here, either.”

Ciri sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry, “I was born in Cin--I mean, there’s _way_ scarier places than Novigrad.”

“You’re...not incorrect.”

“Anyway, I pick Geralt’s jobs, but he _never_ listens. I told him the striga was a bad mark, but he’s a softy and wants to help people. It’s why we used to eat beans straight from the can before Dandelion’s stories brought him more clients.”

“And you think...we should team up?”

“You look like you have sense.”

 _I do._ Yennefer knows she does; Sabrina’s been mocking her for it for decades. Who clearly _doesn’t_ have sense is Geralt for letting his clearly magically-aware ward run loose in Novigrad when a damned sword strapped to her back. Yennefer takes another sip of apple juice to buy time to formulate her response.

“I’ll come meet him.” 

_If Ciri thinks it’s to pay the witcher a kindness, that’s fine._

* * *

Ciri scribbled the name of a bar down on a scrap of paper and told Yennefer when the witcher would be there. “He waits for clients,” she explained.

_Well, he doesn’t seem like the type to have an office._

The bar is not a place Yennefer would _ever_ step in willingly. The floor feels sticky under her heeled boots, and she wonders if the haze permeating the space is going to sink into her white wool coat. _Black would’ve been more suitable._ The place smells, too--stale sweat and booze. The city should probably condemn it, but no one in Novigrad gives a single shit about things like that.

Yennefer recognizes him immediately--the witcher’s white hair is brushed, this time, and he smells noticeably less like he bathed in sewer muck. The twin swords on his back give it away, too. _One silver and one steel._

She slides into the stool beside him, but doesn’t speak. Geralt doesn’t look at her, but he _does_ inhale sharply. Yennefer watches his nostrils flare and smirks to herself.

The witcher takes a drink of whatever liquor populates his glass, “I didn’t expect to see a dame like you in a place like this.”

“No,” Yennefer replies, “I wouldn’t think you would.”

Before he can reply, the barkeep addresses her, “What can I get ya, lady?”

“Gin. The best you have, which I assume isn’t very good.”

The barkeep laughs and pours Yennefer something that burns but not in a good way.

“I _knew_ you were a snob,” Geralt pushes his glass across the worn wooden surface, “Hit me with that, too.”

“Your precocious ward came to visit me.”

Geralt looks at her, golden eyes narrowing in suspicion, “Stay away from Ciri.”

Yennefer smirks, “She _quite_ wanted to meet me, witcher, even indicated that she thought we should team up.”

To her great amusement, Geralt scrubs a hand over his face, looking utterly worn down, “Ciri doesn’t listen to me.”

“Surely,” she takes a sip of her gin, “Even a brute like you has noticed the magical signature the girl gives off.” Yennefer reaches over and traces her fingertips over the witcher medallion around Geralt’s neck. _The School of the Wolf._ “Doesn’t this alert you?”

He moves back enough that Yennefer can’t reach the medallion. “To threats, yes. Ciri isn’t a threat.”

Yennefer puts her hand in her lap. “How did you come by her?”

“She’s not an object,” Geralt grunts, “and it’s none of your damn business.”

“The girl needs training; I’m not even sure she’s aware of her power. Without it, she could take out half a city block if her mood was right.”

Geralt barks a laugh, “In this fucking city, that’d be a damned shame.”

“If we could target it at the right block,” she smiles and takes a sip of her drink. “She belongs at Aretuza.”

Any good humor in the witcher’s expression vanishes, _“No._ She’s mine.”

“Not an object, right?”

“We’re bound by destiny.” Yennefer can’t tell how Geralt feels about that idea without peering into his mind; she’s also not sure what he means. “I avoided her for _years,_ until there was shit else to do but take her in. She has no family--just me.”

“A witcher for a father.”

“I didn’t miss the fucking humor in it, either. Her grandmother's dying request was for Ciri to find me. She did, and she stays.”

There’s a firm conviction in Geralt’s expression that, somehow, Yennefer admires _._ What he’s doing clearly isn’t easy for him, but he’s staying the course nevertheless. There’s also a bit of envy, deep in the pit of her stomach, that she doesn’t want to examine.

“Would you permit me to teach her?”

Geralt’s expression flickers to genuine surprise, “If she wants to, I have no choice.”

Yennefer, remembering the confident way Ciri strode into the lodge like it was her property, can’t help but agree.

* * *

“Was this a trick?”

Ciri’s hands are on her hips, and she’s looking at Yennefer with extreme skepticism. At least she’s wearing clothes that fit her today--a school uniform that consists of a white blouse and a gray wool jumper. She still has her oversized coat and backpack, but no sword. _They probably won’t let her keep that in class._

“...It was a strategy.”

“I’ll let you teach me, but you _have_ to help Geralt sometimes.”

“You realize that isn’t much of a bargaining chip.”

She shrugs, and Geralt, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, mirrors the gesture. _They look like father and daughter._

“I _really_ don’t want you blowing up a building,” Geralt pauses, “...Maybe if Dandelion’s in it, that’d be fine.”

Ciri rolls her eyes, “The two of you are _best_ friends.”

“...We’re really not.”

They meet after school three days a week, usually in the basement of the lodge, and Yennefer tries to impart some sense of order on Ciri’s magical abilities. Much to her dismay, the girl is basically a half-feral witcher. No matter how many tomes Yennefer hands her on magical theory, she only reads the first few pages, and Yennefer ends up having to explain it. Her backpack is filled with witcher potions, and the only book she seems to have read cover-to-cover is a moldy bestiary Geralt says he brought from Kaer Morhen.

Ciri is _strong,_ though--raw energy that pours out of her and almost overwhelms Yennefer with the intensity of it. She expects Ciri to lose control, but the girl seems almost unaware of how deeply the vein of magical energy runs through her.

Geralt watches the proceedings. a grumpy-but-proud statue.

“Sorceresses draw from chaos,” Yennefer tells Ciri over more apple juice and butter cookies. Geralt is there, too, but he refuses both. “We harness it to cast our spells, but _all_ magic has a cost.”

“Madame Yennefer, what if I don’t like the cost?”

“You have the power to choose how you pay it,” Yennefer continues, “That is a boon granted to those of us who study the art of magic. The problem comes when you try to take more than you’ve paid for.”

Ciri leans in closer, “What do I pay, and how do I know the price?

Yennefer pushes a book across the table with her index finger, “By reading. And we pay in many ways--materials, energy, our own lifeforce.”

“Is there anyone who doesn’t have to pay?”

“The elves of old had a much greater natural magical affinity than humans do. They could draw from themselves. Although, we’ve taken magic _much_ further than they did.”

What Yennefer _doesn’t_ tell Ciri is there’s enough of a wellspring of magic in her that she might not need to call upon chaos at all.

* * *

It takes a month, but Yennefer sort of starts to see why Ciri has Geralt wrapped around her finger. She also, begrudging, starts to see that Geralt cares for the girl, deeply and genuinely, despite his gruff exterior.

 _They’re a family,_ she thinks, and tries to ignore the feeling like a knife being jabbed between her ribs.

“You promised to help,” Ciri appears on an afternoon they’re not scheduled to meet and foists a greasy sheet of paper at her. “Geralt even said I could go if you went.”

Yennefer doesn’t try and figure out the meaning behind that. Instead, she takes the paper from Ciri and reads the details.

“A lone barghest?”

“They hunt in packs,” Ciri sounds like she’s reciting the damned bestiary, “Coat the blade in spectre oil. A witcher could use axii to charm them or yrden to trap them. They can also be set on fire, but it won’t kill them.”

“Anything else, witcher girl?”

Ciri purses her lips in thought, “Moondust bombs.”

“...Have you memorized _any_ of my readings that thoroughly?”

The girl has the sense to look admonished, “I’m sorry, Madame Yennefer--it’s easier to remember things that are useful.”

* * *

“Witcher,” Yennefer calls out, “Do all your quarries involve traipsing through mud and shit?”

“I have to agree with our sorceress friend here,” Dandelion calls out, “Couldn’t you track a hideous beast on a nice, clean street? Maybe a cafe?”

“We’re _not_ friends,” Yennefer snaps.

“I’m fucking sorry that monsters don’t hide out in prim and tidy spots,” Geralt grumbles.

Ciri laughs, “At least you’re getting the wardrobe down, Dandelion. Those boots will serve you better.”

Yennefer looks down at her own sartorial choice--black boots and equally black trousers. She ever wore a black coat, despite preferring the white one. If this were _her_ hunt, she’d use a teleportation portal to land on top of the damned barghest.

“We could teleport,” she suggests, “Very simple, we basically know where we’re going.”

Geralt turns and glares at her, “No. Fucking. Portals.”

“Touchy.”

_Fine. We’re doing this one the witcher way--mud and shit included._

Witcher lore is steeped in mystery, and, grating as Yennefer finds the present company, it’s a fine opportunity to observe a witcher at work. She read a book, decades ago in Aretuza’s library, about the Trial of the Grasses. The book hadn’t been terribly specific--only that many children died, it was said to be _extremely_ painful, and the mutagens had a profound effect on the subject’s physiology. 

That, and the ritual was lost to the ages.

Geralt needs no light as they work their way through the vacant industrial complex where the barghest is supposedly located. He scouts ahead of them like a beast in the darkness with his preternatural senses. She wonders what he can smell and hear and how it guides him.

With a spell, Yennefer could find the beast, but she’s more invested in watching the witcher. 

Dandelion stumbles on some debris on the ground and lets out a yowl; Yennefer would gag him, but Ciri asks if he’s okay.

“Fine,” Dandelion lilts, “just, you know, human, and therefore at a severe disadvantage.”

“I’m human,” Yennefer corrects, not liking the implication, “I can’t see in the dark without a spell, either. Ciri, make a light.”

The girl does, whispering a short incantation in Elder Speech and a warm flame hovers above her palm. She grins at it in pride.

“Look, Madame Yennefer!”

“Good work, Ciri. A book taught you that.”

The rest of their trip is made in relative silence. Geralt is far enough ahead that Yennefer can’t see him in the darkness. If this place had streetlights, they are long since burnt out. Ciri’s light illuminates their footpath well enough, and Yennefer lets her mind wander to the witcher potions and blade oils she _knows_ are in Ciri’s backpack, contained in thick glass vials. She knows all those formulas by heart, but nothing that technical Yennefer has taught her in the past month stuck.

Yennefer is pondering what advice Tissaia de Vries would give her on the matter of Ciri’s education when Geralt, somewhere in the darkness beyond Ciri’s flame, bellows, “Incoming!”

In unison, Ciri draws the sword off her back and Dandelion holds up his camera. _What a fucking pair._ Neither are people she’d take to a real fight. The witcher, maybe, but she’d have better luck alone than with a child, no matter how steeped in magic, and a sidekick reporter.

Yennefer does nothing, but she’s prepared to cast a variety of spells.

They’ve stopped in an open area surrounded by what Yennefer assumes are shipping crates. The light is a little better here--some of Novigrad’s eternal light pollution encroaches on the darkness of the shipping yard.

There’s a snarling noise off in the distance, and Yennefer turns her head to it. Ciri’s little flame, now hovering above her their heads, does little. _Not enough light._

“We’re at a disadvantage in the dark,” Yennefer calls out.

“Wish I had a flashlight,” Dandelion says.

“You’ve a sorceress with you; what need is there of a measly flashlight?”

The spell is a simple one, barely an incantation, but the flame from her hand rises and grows, spreading out over them in a dome of light. 

Geralt, not as far away as Yennefer imagined, looks up and says, “Shit.”

 _“Woah,”_ Ciri agrees, “I wanna do that, too.”

 _Read a book._ Yennefer doesn’t get a chance to say that because the barghest is within sight, and that’s a more pertinent issue than scolding her charge. 

The barghest charges at them with a growl. Gerat makes a sign with his fingers that Yennefer doesn’t recognize. Something must show on her face because Ciri calls out to her.

“It’s the sign for yrden! It sets a trap. Watch--Geralt will lead the beast through it.”

Geralt runs, leading the creature through a loop into the trap. The barghest doesn’t go down, but it does stagger enough for Geralt to swing with his sword and land a hit. The beast howls in pain, and Geralt proceeds to light in on fire with another sign.

“Igni!” Ciri helpfully yells.

Dandelion snaps no less than a dozen photos. 

“Move more to the left!” Dandelion calls out when Geralt’s back is turned, “And face this way! I can publish a picture of your backside. Well, I _could,_ but--”

The barghest charges again, snarling. “That’s _not_ how fighting a monster works, Dandelion!”

“It is if you want good photos!’

Geralt lands another hit, and the beast roars in pain; Yennefer can’t help but notice Geralt _is_ facing the right direction for Dandelion’s camera.

“See,” Ciri says, “now he’s listening!”

There’s more snapping of the camera until Dandelion yells, “That is _such_ a sexy shot, Geralt! Cover photo material.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

It creates a momentary distraction for Geralt, whose expression mirrors the one Yennefer would have if she didn’t have decades of practice masking her reactions. The barghest tackles the witcher to the ground, clawed front legs against his chest. There’s a ripping of cloth and a grunt of pain.

“Geralt!” Ciri yells, reaching into her bag and grabbing what Yennefer assumes is a moondust bomb. Her aim is surprisingly good--the bomb shatters near where the barghest has Geralt pinned down.

It shrieks, and Geralt uses the opportunity to kick the creature off him; he jumps to his feet, sword in hand, but Yennefer’s had enough of the entire procession.

“We’re here to kill it, not play with it!”

The binding spell, the same as Yennefer used on the striga, holds the barghest in place. A witcher has swords and potions and those odd half-magic signs, but a sorceress has explosion magic. 

Geralt looks, for all of a second, like he expects monster viscera to fall from the sky like rain.

Luckily, the binding spell contains the mess.

Ciri’s now-useless ball of flame peters out in her distraction, and she looks upward and says, “Woah.”

“If it was so easy, why didn’t you do that in the fucking first place?” Geralt yells.

Yennefer huffs, “I assumed you’d be above getting distracted; that spell takes a lot of energy, you know.”

Dandelion’s camera flashes, and Yennefer realizes she just became the subject of a human-interest piece.

* * *

The witcher is bleeding quite aggressively from a chest wound and where the back of his head hit the concrete when the barghest knocked him down. _They have enhanced healing abilities, but I don’t know the extent of them._

Either way, head wounds bleed excessively, so they should probably relocate.

“Witcher,” she calls out, “Tell me your address; we’re taking a portal.”

“No portals,” Geralt repeats, getting to his feet, “We’ll call a fucking taxi.”

“That you can bleed all over?”

 _“Fine._ I’ll walk.”

Ciri goes to him, and even though she’s a tiny slip of a girl, Geralt wraps an arm around her and lets her steady him. She looks up at him, “Please, Geralt. Let Madame Yennefer take us.”

Yennefer expects him to object, but he sighs and says, _“Damnit._ Fine. If our head and legs end up on opposite sides of Novigrad, I’m blaming you.”

Offended, Yennefer says, “My portals are _perfectly_ safe.”

Dandelion, of all people, gives her the address, and within moments the four of them are standing in the middle of Geralt’s shabby kitchen. The linoleum floor is scuffed and the ice box and range are ancient. _This is where you keep the girl?_

Ciri guides Geralt to one of the chairs around the table; it seems like it might collapse under the bulk of him, but it holds. She fetches a tin from one of the upper cabinets and opens it on the table. 

_A first aid kit?_ _How many times has she patched him up?_

“Ciri,” the witcher grunts, “I heal fast--don’t fuss.”

Nevertheless, Ciri presses a cloth to the wound through the ripped shirt and digs through the tin for gauze. “Even so, there’s no harm in cleaning it. Unless witchers don’t get infections?”

“No,” Geralt shuts his eyes, defeated, “we do.”

Blood absorbs into the cloth as Ciri applies pressure. Dandelion hovers at the periphery looking like he wants to help but not knowing how. Geralt is grumbling, but they keep fussing, and Yennefer feels completely alien to the situation. 

_They care about him._

“There’s a better solution,” Yennefer divests herself of her coat and drapes it over the back of a vacant chair. _There has never been two items more diametrically opposed in their quality._ She takes off her gloves and rolls up the sleeves on her blouse. “Get me a drink first.”

Dandelion trades places with Ciri, and Yennefer wonders how many times she’s fetched liquor for Geralt. Yennefer can’t see the label of what Ciri pours, but it burns just as much as the shit she drank at the bar a month ago.

“That tastes like shit,” she places the glass on the table, “Get out of my way.”

Both Dandelion and Ciri scatter to the edge of the room.

“I’m fine,” the witcher glares, “This is a fucking scratch.”

“They’re worried about you,” Yennefer leans against the edge of the table and holds out her hand, “It’s a simple spell.”

“No such thing.”

“Do witchers not use magic?”

He glares, “It’s not the same.”

She pulls the cloth off the wound--the bleeding has become sluggish, “Are the signs just paltry parlor tricks?”

The witcher’s disagreement is more of a grunt.

“You’ll have to regale me with the details of it once you’re sentient again.”

There’s no magic more draining than healing, and even though Yennefer’s reserves are robust, she feels like she’s run a city block as the wound stitches itself together. Yennefer might be imagining it, but she thinks Geralt holds his breath the entire time. 

"...Thanks.”

“He _does have_ manners!”

Behind them, Ciri and Dandelion laugh.

* * *

“We make a good team,” are the last words Ciri says before Geralt sends her to bed.

“It’s a school night,” he repeats, closing the bedroom door behind her. “I’ll hear you if you try and go down the fire escape.”

Yennefer watches the scene. _So, the witcher can parent when he tries._ Not that Yennefer really knows anything about parenting. She can at least identify when someone is a disaster at it. _No, my impression has improved somewhat._

Geralt pours her another glass of swill, and Yennefer subjects herself to both it and his lumpy sofa.

“The girl admires you.”

“I know,” Geralt sighs, “It’s not a good thing.”

A month ago, Yennefer would have agreed without restraint. Now, she’s less certain. She nurses her drink as she thinks of an answer.

“I might have...judged you too harshly,” Yennefer admits, “You’re providing for her, and that’s more than most people have.”

“I try,” Geralt drinks, “Being a witcher isn’t exactly the model of domestic bliss.”

Yennefer raises her glass an inch in acknowledgment, “Neither is the life of a sorceress. We give up things for our power.” 

“The choice was made for me,” Geralt lowers his voice, “There’s no humanity left in a witcher.”

 _Foolish._ Geralt is unbearably human--he’s sullen and grating and cares for Ciri deeply. _Without humanity, he wouldn’t be so irritating._ He’s on the opposite end of the couch, so Yennefer moves to the middle cushion and looks at him. At the neared proximity, Geralt inhales sharply.

_My perfume?_

“You bleed.” She reaches out to touch the ruined shirt tracing her fingers along the gash. Geralt’s chest is exposed, and there’s still blood in his hair. The skin she can see is an utter mess of scars. “Frequently, it seems.”

“Sorry that I’m not beautiful. And the barghest bled, too, when you exploded it. That didn’t make it more than a monster.”

“You use your rudimentary magic,” Yennefer continues, “Humanity allows us to do so.”

“The mutagens,” Geralt counters scowling, “They strip and remake you. Do sorceresses not undergo something similar? Does it not take something from you?”

Yennefer nods, “It does.” She could tell him the tolls she’s paid over the decades with her body and her blood. 

Their eyes meet; the almost-luminous gold of his cutting through her; Yennefer doesn’t appreciate feeling so _seen._

“Wasn’t it your choice?”

“Yes, but can’t I mourn what it denies me?”

“Is there any point?”

“I don’t know,” Yennefer admits, settling back against the sofa cushion. “But you’ve been given a chance to have something lost to both of us.”

 _A child._ Yennefer is filled with envy at every inch of this shitty apartment.

“Ciri,” Geralt huffs, “And the Law of fucking Surpise.”

 _Sometime, later, I’ll ask how they came to meet._ She could pry it from Geralt’s mind, but she’s been staunchly avoiding reading his thoughts for the last month.

“Ask Ciri if she thinks you’re human.”

“She’ll scream at me.” Geralt drains his glass and plunks it down on the table, “Ciri talks about you constantly. I think she wants to be the first ever sorceress _and_ witcher.”

Yennefer laughs, “She has a _long_ way to go, and she needs to commit to reading a book.”

Geralt chuckles, too, “Thank you, Yen--I mean, for the shit with Ciri. At least she can set people on fire if I can’t stop her from climbing out the window and getting into trouble.”

 _Yen._ No one’s ever--

“Yen,” she tries it out. Geralt is frozen in place, so she leans in a bit. Their thighs are touching, now, and they’re as close as they were on the night with the striga. Yennefer had been livid, but she couldn’t deny the appeal of Geralt’s muscular form. _He smells better now, too._

“Yen,” he repeats, tone a bit lower.

“I like that, I think.”

The smirk the witcher gives her is very, _very_ human; Yennefer thinks he’s an idiot all over again. 

“Yen it is, then.”

* * *

“Yenna!” Sabrina calls out without getting up from the chaise, “Your scraggly street urchin apprentice is here!”

Yennefer descends the stairs into the common room to find Ciri clutching a newspaper. Her non-school clothes are the same ill-fitting hodgepodge as ever, but Yennefer is used to them by now. 

“Dandelion’s new story came out today,” she waves the newspaper above her head. “It’s about you, though.”

“It better not be.”

Ciri grins, “Too late, Madame Yennefer.”

Her heels click on the tile as she strides across the room and takes the newspaper from the girl’s hand. Yennefer reads the title, “‘Bombshell,’ _really?”_

“I helped Dandelion with the title.”

“Do I even want to know its origins?”

“You exploded the barghest,” Ciri explains, “Geralt was surprised you helped, and don’t tell Dandelion I told you this, but he thinks you're pretty.”

Yennefer scans the article and reads aloud, "'Hair like a raven’s wing...in the violet eyes sleep lightning bolts.’ This is _quite_ sensationalist.”

Ciri laughs, “That’s just how he writes.”

The cover photo, this time, is the barghest suspended in mid-air in her binding spell. Geralt, in the background, is sprawled out on the concrete. _Well,_ she thinks, _the lighting is flattering. He also looks like he’s being rescued._

Yennefer finds herself smiling, thinking of Geralt calling her _Yen,_ “Well, at least _this_ one is accurate.”

**Author's Note:**

> The quote Yennefer reads is a direct line from Dandelion's ballad about Yennefer from _Blood of Elves._
> 
> Let me know what you think! You can find me on tumblr @kurikaesu-haru.


End file.
